


Freedom

by Frangipanidownunder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-26 01:11:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14391021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frangipanidownunder/pseuds/Frangipanidownunder
Summary: A NSFW RM9 AU (where they did pay the tip and returned to their homes) and it’s based on @jenandrews brilliant Date Night vid that, if you haven’t already watched, you must be insane.





	Freedom

She looks around her apartment, at its clean lines and marble bench tops and glass ornaments tucked into perfectly carved shelves. It’s perfectly perfect. Just what she always wanted. Well, just what she wanted when she was fucking 21 and thought the earth rotated on an axis of science and rationalism.

She walks to the kitchen and looks at her reflection in the surfaces. Her hair is perfectly in place. Her self-care routine has ensured her complexion is healthy and her body is still fit. She pinches the back of her hand but it’s not to watch the way the skin falls back in place, perfectly. It’s to see if she still has any feeling left.

Her home is sterile like an operating theatre. Her life is dictated by an electronic keypad on the wall, by her phone, her Roomba, even by her vibe. Once, it was controlled by a chip in her neck. She feels like one of the robots in that fucking sushi restaurant. Programmed. She picks up her phone to text Mulder. She’s still unusually restless. And he’s always a good distraction. She begins to tap the keys, then decides that hearing his voice would actually be the better course of action.

While she’s waiting for him to pick up, she stares at her reflection. If she’s honest, she’s been programmed her whole life. Maybe not by anything sinister or electronic, but it’s always been there. To be good and do the right thing, to act and think a certain way, to pray, to examine and weigh up and measure, and early on, to spy and judge. A few years with Mulder, and he challenged that programming and allowed her the freedom to change. But here she is, surrounded by the promise of a stress-free life but she’s actually just fucking tired. Tired of the constraints, the messages, the control.

“Mulder, it’s me.”

“I’m on my way, Scully.”

She smiles as she thinks about Siri and Alexa and Echo. Smart devices. But not smart enough to know a ‘Mulder, it’s me’ from a ‘Mulder, it’s me.’

 

This isn’t the first time he’s been to her apartment but in his quiet arrival it’s the first time she’s realised just how much she misses the scrunch of tyres over gravel, the creaking of the steps, the groan of the flywire. Their house was old and comfortable and, if she thinks about it, a little human. It was weathered and worn and sunken. But it contained dog-eared books and handwritten recipes and black and white photos and drawers filled with receipts and matchbooks and mysterious notes. It held mysteries and memories. It held their lives on its walls, in its rooms, under its covers.

Mulder smells like the house and she shivers. “Thanks for coming over.”

“You sounded…lonely, Scully.”

“This place,” she says, handing him a wine. An expensive Australian shiraz she bought as a cruel celebration when she left the house to ‘free’ him. “It’s…sometimes I just want to tip tables and tear down paintings and smash ceramics.” His chest is warm against her face. “Sometimes I just want to run through wet forests and dig my fingers into the earth.” His light chuckle rocks her head. “Sometimes I just want to lie naked with you and feel your muscles working, your tendons crunching, your breath on my skin.”

There’s a beat where he says nothing, does nothing, doesn’t even breathe. They are moulded together, flesh and bone. An incongruous corpereal sculpture in her anodyne living space. The gentle scratch of his stubbled chin against her neck sends her neurons into overdrive. Red heat lunges through her. Primal, wanton. She knows what she needs. And it’s a lot more than her collection of gadgets can ever assess.

She leaves his warmth and heads to her kitchen. She pulls open the drawers and cupboards and puts out bowls and plates and cutlery. There’s a fresh spice store in the mall and her favourite collection is the Mediterranean mix. She pulls out the jar of dried oregano and garlic and basil and places it next to her crystal salt and pepper shakers and the ignorantly large lasagne dish that Bill and Tara gave her as a house-warming present. She’s always hated its family-sized optimism and has never even sponged away the store name sticker from its underside.

“I didn’t think you invited me round for dinner, Scully.” He’s watching her with the same sort of expression he used to reserve for Skinner’s reprimands. Wounded yet amused.

“You said you would fuck me on the counter in that restaurant, right?”

“I don’t believe I ever said that, but the offer still stands. I don’t think we need a reservation. And I don’t think there’d be much of an audience. Apart from Big Brother and his band of steel-faced robot drones.” He stops and looks at her, that gaze of care he’s so good at. “Are you feeling okay, Scully?”

She puts the most expensive vase she possesses on the counter. It’s square and heavy and blends from deep crimson to palest pink, in blown glass crafted by a local artist. It was an impulse buy when she got the keys to the apartment. It represented her own design, the bleeding away of her old life into a fresh new one. But she could never find a spot for it. It always looked out of place. It lurked in the cupboard next to the waste drawer waiting for flowers that would never come.

“I’m feeling fine. In fact,” she says, walking around the bench to tiptoe up and kiss his lips, “I’m feeling disgustingly human and I don’t want to drive to a bland sushi joint and spend precious time pressing icons and watching screens. I want you, Mulder. And I want you to fuck me on the counter. My counter.”

“You’ve got a really great fireplace through there, Scully, we could…”

“It’s fake.” She slips her hand under his tee and he reels a little as her nails scrape against his hard abdomen. “But this,” she whispers into his mouth, “this is real.”

They used to kiss like this when they first got together. Slowly, tentatively, enjoying the discovery. After he was returned, their kisses were filled with unshed tears and unspoken questions. On the run, they rarely kissed. They fucked with abandon but the meeting of lips meant a sharing of intimacy, a kind of acknowledgement of their situation. As the fear of being found subsided, their kisses grew steadier, deeper, more loving. And now, they have come full circle.

His hands run over her waist, down, then up her sides, sending messages to her nipples. She tugs his shirt from his pants and he pulls away for a moment to lift it over his head. She pulls her own sweater and pants off, watching them pool over the tiled floor. The hairs over her body rise at the change of temperature. Mulder bends to kiss her neck, the gap between her collar bones, the underside of her jaw, her ear lobes. He sucks her earring, letting it go with a pop. The edge of the bench presses into her back as he knees her thighs apart, rubbing against her in a building rhythm.

“Lift me up, Mulder.” She bends her elbows and tries to set her hands on the counter so he can lever her.

“It’s covered in stuff, Scully.”

Their mouths are locked together and she talks into his. “I don’t care, lift me now.”

He grips her butt and she’s up, legs wide, Mulder between. The salt and pepper shakers are the first casualty, smashing to the floor. Mulder tuts and turns to look but she guides him back to her, shaking her head. She takes his hand and places it on the lasagne dish. He looks at her, eyebrows raised, lips pushed out. Together they push the plate to the floor and it lands with a meaty crack.

“Fuck, that sounds good,” she says. “I hated that thing. Why are your pants still on?”

They’re off in a heartbeat, his phone clattering onto the bench, and he steps forward, closing the gap between them. He licks the valley between her breasts and she grips the cool flat marble with her hands and his muscled back with her heels. He is solid and hot and real and she is melting. He sighs as he kisses her again and she pushes a pair of dessert bowls off as she wriggles towards the edge, tilting her pelvis up to receive more of his weight where she needs it.

There’s a pulse to their urgency now, powering them. He heads south, slipping his fingers under the waist band of her panties. As she lifts her butt so he can slide them over her hips, the cheese knives clatter to the floor. With each crashing sound, her energy levels ramp up. With each exploration of his tongue, her breath feels heavier, like she’s having to force itself from her lungs. Her stomach muscles are straining as she props herself up while Mulder flattens his tongue and pushes it against her clit, holding it there, pinning her into pain-pleasure limbo. When he does release her, she shifts slightly allowing his tongue to dip and weave where she needs it. His hands move under her, kneading her naked ass in time to his movements. Her shoulders slip back and the dinner plates fall. She laughs and moves one hand to the back of his head, urging him deeper so he can unlock the deepest of her truths. His fingers spread her cheeks apart and the cool of bench only adds to the electricity. His nose adds to the unspeakable pleasure and when he inserts a finger she just about loses her mind. The pace increases and in a few short strokes she’s right at the edge.

“God, Mulder. This is un-fucking-believable.” Her voice is gruff and he responds with a wet groan. “I’m…oh…I’m, yes.” She bucks and shudders on his face, feeling the rough pleasure of his chin and the ridge of her nose as she continues to slide up and down.

She regroups and sits up as he slips his boxers down. His cock springs up and she reaches out to grasp it, knocking a platter off in her rush.

“This is getting dangerous, Scully,” he says, looking at the debris on the tiles.

“Since when has that ever stopped us?” She grips the base of his cock and squeezes until he lets out a hot sigh.

She pumps and his eyes burn. Tilting his head slightly, he drags a small gravy boat to the edge and as she thumbs his tip and swirls precum around it, he lets it drop. His knees buckle and she tugs at him, hitching her knees up and out so he can see his prize.

“Fuck, Scully. What are you doing?”

“I’m losing control, I’m deprogramming. C’mon. In me. Get in me, now.”

He pinches a nipple as he makes a quick slide inside and they both groan. She tips her pelvis down, shifting her butt so that it is half-hanging off the bench. The weight of him holds her in place and the bench is so hard against the nubs of her spine with each thrust but the reward is the sweet release on the way back out. In and out. Hot and hard. Pain and pleasure. She sees the glass vase and reaches out to push it off the bench, just at the peak of the pain. She imagines it spreading its crimson tide of glass over the white floor and feels her own blood rushing to the surface of her skin. There are other crashes and clatters. Over Mulder’s rhythmic moans, she’s vaguely aware of a buzzing. But he’s so close and she’s riding a second wave.

“Aaaah, yes,” he utters from a place buried deep. The skin on his shoulders ripples and with his head thrust back she watches his chest rise and fall with the rapidity of his breathing. His veins rip down his arms, pulsing. He is power and ecstasy.

Eventually, she lets her head drop back until she’s lying flat on the bench and his hands move to cover her breasts, massaging as he comes down. She realises the buzzing sound she can hear is Mulder’s phone ringing. She starts to giggle and his building laugh reverberates up her body.

“Can I get up now?” she asks and he pulls her arm until she’s upright. She takes a moment to let the blood return where it should be and he watches her, a look of pure awe on his face. She lets him lift her down and they find themselves surrounded by rainbow shards of china and glass and specks of salt and pepper.

“What a mess,” he says.

She lays her head against his chest, his cock still semi-hard and warm against her tummy. “I love this mess,” she says.

“What was all this about, Scully? I would have taken you to bed, if you’d just asked.”

“Freedom,” she says and clasps her hands around him.


End file.
